


Man proposes, God disposes

by ChimericalSerenity



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Angst, God figure, M/M, Not really though, Short One Shot, Spiritual, deaths wee, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2206920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChimericalSerenity/pseuds/ChimericalSerenity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's clear as day, not at all aureate, and Midorima hears it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man proposes, God disposes

_If you lose, He will perish._

It’s a clear as day, direct, not at all aureate, and Midorima hears it. He jolts, startled from his daily motions. The voice itself is sharp, commanding, even more so than Akashi’s, but Midorima is not surprised by this, as this sound; it couldn’t’ve be anyone but God. He laughs at his superstition; even if he does believe in his lucky items and charms, there is no way God would _talk_ to him. Therefore, he brushes it off and pushes it to the back of his mind.

_That, was two years ago._

Otsubo is lining up for the tip off, his knees are bending, ready for a huge spring to start off the game, when Midorima hears it again. His blood his turns stone cold, and everything seems to be happening in slow motion. All he knows is ‘ _If you lose, He will perish. Takao Kazunari will perish_ ’ is playing _over and over_ in his mind like a broken tape.

This time, the words make him scared. This is the real deal. Midorima can feel it in his blood; feel the pure urgency pumping through the spurts of blood in his arteries. _He knows it._ Takao Kazunari is going to die.

This goes through his mind in less than a second, and he jumps a split second later. However, the timing is off, and the ball is directed towards Rakuzan. The ball is swiftly passed from member to member, the ball slipping through Shutoku’s defences, as if cheekily taunting the green eyed man: _You’re going to lose. Both the game and the man you love._

The game passes by in a whirlwind of sound, and he wonders later why he didn’t get down on his knees and beg. Beg Akashi to spare Takao’s life. Maybe it was his subconscious desire for the preservation of his pride, he didn’t know. Begging Akashi seemed so out of place that his brain didn’t even consider it.

It’s the end of the third quarter, and Midorima gets a free shot. The balancing mark between tying and **losing**. Midorima’s hand pushes upwards, and the ball sails downwards and he knows, he’s calculated the never-failing parabola of the ball, watching as it sinks gracefully down and through the net with a soft, soothing swish. But, when his teammates cheer and Takao pats him on the back, Midorima feels hopeless. He allows a spark of hope to pierce him at the turn of events, but subconsciously, in his heart, he is already missing Takao’s laughter and his touch and his fond gaze. He already _knows._

The last quarter now. It’s not a special occasion. The berth between the points widen, and later, Midorima realizes that Akashi didn’t do anything. Not at all. He wasn’t even trying. And he won. That leaves a sick taste in his mouth he can never wash away. Even before the whistle sounds, he already knows, his posture tight, his balls jerking upwards and hitting the hoop before falling in. Akashi can see Midorima’s uncertainty. Midorima knows this, and knows also, that if Akashi is going to strike it would be right now.

However, Akashi doesn’t. Maybe he senses the way grief rolls of Midorima’s posture, because he doesn’t do a single thing. And maybe that’s why it hurts. He can’t do a single _fucking_ thing, and Takao is venturing towards his death, shot by shot. The time is ticking, and it was going to end soon.

It’s going to end soon.

_It’s going to end soon._

The whistle blows, and Midorima feels numb; what could he do?

He waits. He can’t bear to leave, but he knows that the waiting would torture him longer. Takao’s halfway across the court, his face marred with sadness, before he stops, falters, eyes blown wide. He jerks, uttering a stuttered word of help, but Midorima, who was waiting for this moment, had already crossed the room and pulled Takao in his arms.

He presses his lips to Takao, and for a while, the other’s lips move against his, tainted with the metallic tang of blood. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the shocks and jolts that cause him to think that Takao was kissing him back, or if the point guard was already too far past the apex of pain that he complied, but he was happy that he was able to taste Takao’s lips once. Because past all that pain, and the crimson life essence spilling from Takao’s lips, Takao tasted undeniably like Takao; like salt water, and the damp mossy quality that the smell of rain contained.

_Man proposes, God disposes._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it? :/ Just a random idea that stemmed from nowhere. The angst game was strong in this fic. Anywho, please kudos and comment! ^^


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